


Opposites... Attract?

by b_ndito



Category: Hiveswap, Homestuck
Genre: Also homestuck-esque introduction paragraph thing, Bickering, Character Study, Drabble, F/M, First interactions, God Tiers/Aspects study, Highbloods being assholes, Psychic Abilities, Psychic Violence, You guys wouldn't believe me if I told you that they actually end up as matesprites later on haha, You know what I'm talking about don't act like you don't
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-18
Updated: 2018-10-18
Packaged: 2019-08-03 23:22:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16335185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/b_ndito/pseuds/b_ndito
Summary: Just a god tier/aspect/whatever study for some characters! c:Tirrez is blood-bound, Xarket is breath-bound





	Opposites... Attract?

Maybe you just aren’t cut out for this world. Maybe you never will be. 

 

You can’t wait for your exile.

 

“That’s another one,” the indigo who stands beside you informs you in a hushed voice. “That one, right there.”

 

He points to someone in the crowd. From this corner of the shopping plaza, you’ve got a good view of the trolls that pass by. It’s your job to have a good view of them. 

 

You eye around the room, acting like you are surveying the entire crowd as they go about their shopping business, but really you are just inspecting the troll he’s pointed to. Yep, that’s definitely one of them.

 

The troll walks into what you assume is an art store of some kind, double checking their surroundings, as though they’re worried about someone following them. They better be worried, because you’re already onto their case. You’ve taken notice of their baggy clothing, their athletic shoes, and the hemononymous sign they bare on their hoodie. Their backpack, probably full of survival supplies, clings to their back so that it can’t be taken from them.  Another day, another mutant that needs to be taken care of. It’s pitiful, really, how obvious they make themselves. 

 

“I’m on it,” you whisper back, letting out a sigh. 

 

Your name is TIRREZ VOMVEE, and a violetblood like you has responsibilities. Your life isn’t all FUN and FAME. More often than not, it’s BLOOD and NOTABILITY.

 

You enjoy your time being the LEADER of a small but NOTABLE motorcycle gang. Your PEERS respect you, or at least, THEY BETTER. When you aren’t out cruising to STEAL MOTORCYCLE PARTS or EXECUTING MUTANTBLOODS, you find a lot of your free time is spent in the CULINARY FIELD, particularly making EASTERN STYLE SEAWEED ROLLED FISH BITES. Not to brag, but,  you’re good at those. Many of your PEERS wonder why you smell like SESAME OIL rather than MOTOR OIL, but you’ll never tell them.

 

You have a BIT OF AN EGO to uphold.

 

Your trolltag is quiFurabatur [QF] and you typ37in a way that sugg37sts a strong alignm37nt to your sign.

 

You walk straight into the crowd and towards the art store, knowing you’ll have no trouble bumping into anyone. At least, anyone who didn’t want their blood to spill on the tile. Highbloods just seem to have that sort of unspoken understanding with the lower castes, how convenient. A goldblood almost,  _ almost _ walks in front of you, but notices your sign - Aquacen - and stops immediately in their tracks to let you pass by. 

 

When you’ve made it to the store, you open the door - noting the little ‘ding’ it gives off as you open it -  and acquire your preferred strife from your sylladex, a thin sword that’s just on the verge of being called a fencing spear, but isn’t quite  _ that _ thin. You consider yourself too manly for a fencing spear.

 

The other trolls in the store become dead silent and tense up in response to your actions, eyes widening and shoulders shaking. You don’t care, and so you don’t apologize. They aren’t the reason you’re here. The rustblooded clerk notices you and is visibly frightened.

 

“Is there anything I can help you with, your eminence?” she almost squeaks, trying her best to remain calm. You glance about the aisles and shake your head, no. You don’t need anyone’s help. You’re good at what you do because you never need help.

 

Huh. The mutant suspect seems to have vanished. 

 

You walk leisurely around the store, down each aisle and back again as the other trolls watch with anxiety. Gone.

 

“Alright, well, guess I’m done here,” you lie. Moving back towards the door, you open it so that it makes the ‘ding’ sound and close it again, not leaving the store.

 

Almost immediately, a troll stands up from behind the counter, having been crouching previously. You glare at the rustblood next to her, who is on the verge of tears. While the clerk lets out a fit of pleas and ridiculous sobs, the other trolls in the store cower to the aisles and wait for you to lash out, but you don’t. You aren’t inclined to acting out on anger, just on getting your job done.

 

The troll is your suspect, and so you waste no time going back to the counter and demanding that they walk out of the store with you. To your surprise, they obey. Normally, mutants put up a real fight, desperate to survive. This one seems fine with only hiding as a means for survival.

 

Their long hair is styled into two loose braids that drape on either shoulder as they poke out of the hood they wear. They wear a mask of some sort, one that someone might wear if they worked closely with hazardous spray-paints and cared about their health. Once you take them out of the store, you escort them, with unreasonable ease, outside of the shopping plaza.

 

“Hands where I can see them, and lose the bag. You,” you begin, drawing your weapon so they don’t try to run, “are under arrest for suspicion of bearing an illegal hemotype. I’ll only ask you once, so don’t even think about lying or getting a second chance.”

 

They nod, and then proceed to remove their mask. Oh, they’re a girl. She doesn’t seem upset in the slightest, displaying a calm attitude about all of this. Her backpack drops to the ground in a thud, and you hear the heavy metallic noise of cans hitting each other.

 

“I understand,” she sighs, looking towards the ground. “It’s entirely my fault for bleeding the color that I do. When I was in the brooding caverns, I guess I should’ve asked for another blood color, huh? Maybe I should’ve asked to be a violet, like you.”

 

Was that sarcasm? You can’t tell; she sounds so calm. Either way, that was clever.

 

You aren’t really sure how to respond to that. No one’s ever retorted in such a way. You know, logically, that her blood color isn’t her fault; no one’s blood color is their fault. She’s causing a real confliction with your ideals, here. 

 

“What color is your blood? Your hemononymous sign is a direct indicator on irregular blood color.” You tighten your grip on your weapon. “I’ll only ask once.”

 

She brings her gaze up to meet yours, perhaps challenging you, perhaps not. You can’t tell. “Lime.”

 

You scoff. “You think this is a joke? I told you I’d only ask on-”

 

“-And _ I _ told  _ you _ , lime.” she interrupts. Still calm as ever, not a hint of hostility.

 

You stare at her, full of doubt. “You do realize that by making that statement you’re subjecting yourself to culling without trial, _ right? _ Even if it’s not true.”

 

“I’m subject to culling without trial no matter  _ what color  _ my blood is. We all are. As long as we’re below Her. We just don’t realize it.” She states, adding, “And there is no ‘if’, it’s lime.”

 

You glare. What is she talking about? Limebloods are extinct. They died out hundreds of sweeps ago. She’s a liar.

 

“All this talk is borderline revolutionary. Keep your lies to yourself.”

 

She narrows her eyes at you, the first sign of any aggression she’s showed you. “I’m not lying.”

 

From your knowledge in wrigglerschool, limebloods were dangerously powerful and caused nothing but mayhem. To keep everyone else safe, they were exterminated. Their psychic abilities were too strong. They’d be too difficult to control if another rebellion ever broke out. Luckily, they were done away with before anything too catastrophic could happen.

 

“That’s not a nice way to put it.” she says, tilting her head to the side ever so slightly. “Done away with? We’re not objects. We’re people.” 

 

You’re at a loss for words. Did she just… No, she must just be a goldblood. Maybe a bronze. That’s all.

 

“Don’t go meddling in my thoughts.” you order, in disbelief that she had openly read your mind and made it obvious. 

 

“I’m not a goldblood; I’m not a bronzeblood; I told you, I’m a limeblood.” 

 

“ _ Cut it out! _ ”

 

You can’t believe this. Why haven’t you just culled this mutant by now?

 

“I’m not a mutant. That’s your job, right? Culling those who have a mutated blood color? I’m not on your hit list.”

 

You swear. “You’re still a lowblood, and still subject to being culled by me for that reason alone.”

 

She blinks impassively, and perhaps her eyes challenge you, but you’re still unsure how to read this girl. “You don’t make a very strong argument, but I can’t possibly fight you off. So, go ahead. Do it.”

 

You’re done playing games. As you are moving to stab her with your sword, you are stopped abruptly by some unknown force, which snatches your arm back and sends the weapon flying from your hand. You couldn’t have fought it even if you tried.

 

With a pained “oof”, you are thrown onto your back. When you muster the will to sit up and assess what just happened, you notice that she stands perfectly still, completely unaffected and even unphased.

Her eyes meet with yours, and in that moment of disbelief and bewilderment, you feel very threatened. Scared, even. You’ve never really experienced such a feeling. Normally, it’s you who instills fear in others; it’s never been the other way around. 

 

She glares down at you, eyes filled with a haunting coldness that you’ve never seen in any land dweller before. You’ve made a mistake. You’ve made a huge fucking mistake, and now you’re going to die because of it.

 

Limeblood? No. No, no, that couldn’t have been the case. It couldn’t have been. If it’s true, you’re going to die right here. There was no debating about it; your weapon is way out of reach and quite frankly, you’re horrified at the thought of turning your back on her to run away. The drones aren’t sweeping the nearby area (they’re probably causing mayhem in some lowblood neighborhood or something). You’re drawing nothing at a blank.

 

“Not so nice to have the tables turned on you, now is it? Get lost, you fucking coward.” She says, her voice full of venom. Her stare burns holes through you. “The color of the blood in our veins is not the only thing that separates you from me.”

 

Your bloodpusher quivers and you feel sick. Humiliated. Ashamed to have underestimated this troll. You don’t know how to feel. She pauses - it’s a single moment of hesitation, as though she had something to add, but instead she takes a deep breath and says nothing else. Without a second glance, she turns from you, collects her bag, and absconds. 

 

_ The color of the blood in our veins is not the only thing that separates you from me. _


End file.
